So, after all, his “season” was not yet over.  But perhaps kind Jupiter would send rain, and make the murdering of Shakespeare an impossibility.  Now and then he tapped his barometer, which for some days had hovered about “change,” the sky meanwhile being clouded.  On the eve of Midsummer Day there was every sign of unseasonable weather.  Dymchurch told himself, with a certain persistency, that he was glad.

Yet the morrow broke fair, and at mid-day was steadily bright.  Throughout the morning, Dymchurch held himself at remorseless study, and was rewarded by the approval of his conscience; whence, perhaps, the cheerfulness of resignation with which he made ready to keep his engagement at the Surrey house.  With a half smile on his meditative face, he went out into the sunshine.  He was thinking of Rosalind in Arden.

Lord Honeybourne and he had been schoolfellows; they were together at Oxford, but not in the same set, for Dymchurch read, and the other ostentatiously idled.  What was the use of exerting oneself in any way—­asked the Hon. L. F. T. Medwin-Burton—­when a man had only an income of four or five thousand in prospect, fruit of a wretchedly encumbered estate which every year depreciated?  Having left the University without a degree—­his only notable performance a very amusing speech at the Union, proposing the abolition of the House of Lords—­he allied himself with young Sir Evan Hungerford in a journalistic enterprise, and for a year or two the bi-monthly Skylark supplied matter for public mirth, not without occasional scandal.  Then came his succession to the title, and Viscount Honeybourne, as the papers made known, presently set forth on travel which was to cover all British territory.  He came back with an American wife, an incalculable fortune, and much knowledge of Greater Britain; moreover he had gained a serious spirit, and henceforth devoted himself to Colonial affairs.  His young wife—­ she was seventeen at the time of her marriage—­straightway took a conspicuous place in English Society, her note being intellectual and social earnestness.

The play was to begin at three o’clock.  Arriving half an hour before, Dymchurch found his hostess in the open-air theatre, beset with managerial cares, whilst her company, already dressed for their parts, sat together under the greenwood tree, and a few guests strayed about the grass.  He had met Lady Honeybourne only once, and that a couple of years ago; with difficulty they recognised each other.  Lord Honeybourne, she told him, had hoped to be here, but the missing of a steamer (he had run over, just for a day or two, to Jamaica) would make him too late.

“You know Miss Tomalin?” the lady added with a bright smile.  “She has been lunching with me, and we are great friends.  I wish I had known her sooner; she would have had a part.  There she is, talking with Miss Dolbey.—­Yes, of course we have had to cut the play down.  It’s shocking, but there was no choice.”